


Not the Nicest Part of Town

by orphan_account



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Do Not, I bullshit titles, I don't think you're supposed to have full-ass dialogue in tags but whatever y'all, I'm afraid of the Kool-Aid man, Italicizing also doesn't work on my computer, LOOK UP, M/M, REAL LIFE COOLAID MAN, This is completely irrelevant but, also, also i take my writing v seriously, and chapter names, and he's like "OH YEAHHH", and in walks this GIANT ASS pitcher of punch, for your own sake, imagine taking a shower and the door bursts open, in like a super deep gritty voice, like it doesn't seem like a crackhead wrote it, the author just so happens to be a crackhead, why is he allowed to exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s cold, and it’s dark, and Patroclus is tired.Suddenly, from behind him, there’s the scuffle of shoes on pavement.  A crack, a burst of white light, and a flash of excruciating pain splits his skull in two.Patroclus blinks through a haze of fierce pain pounding through his head.  He doesn’t remember falling to the ground.Hey queens, I hope y'all are havin a fun day even though we're in the middle of a national crisis. At least we have ~fanfiction~Idk why I wrote this, but I lowkey love it?STAY SAFE EVERYBODY.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

It’s cold, and it’s dark, and Patroclus is tired.

He hugs his coat close to his chest to preserve the little heat his body radiates. Winds lash around him, whipping at his face and cutting through his skin like tiny daggers. He yawns and swipes drowsily at his eyes. His math league competition had run an hour later than expected, but he knows better than to ask his father for a ride home.

Patroclus normally would’ve called Achilles to pick him up, but it’s almost eleven, and he knows better than to think that Achilles would risk staying up later than he has to the day before an important track meet. He smiles softly to himself, picturing Achilles nuzzled under his covers, snoring quietly (“I don’t snore,” he says), his blonde curls splayed across his pillows in messy golden rivlets.  
There’s no way in hell that Patroclus would want to wake him up, even if it was to keep him from having to walk another two miles to get home.

The streets are ominously empty. Dark windows stare silently down at Patroclus as he briskly passes by the sleeping houses. Smoke stings his throat, and his eyes water. Cigarettes and broken bottles of beer litter the pavement, and he’s careful to avoid the shards of glass splintered into jagged shards beneath his feet.  
This isn’t the nicest part of town, he knows, but it is the fastest way to getting home.  
Patroclus walks a little faster. He’s eager to step beneath the streetlamps and into the pools of yellow light they cast on the sidewalk. Patroclus buries his nose beneath the collar of his jacket, trapping his warm breath on his face.

His stomach tightens. Every now and then, he throws a wary glance over his shoulder.

Maybe he really should call Achilles, he thinks. He’s sure Achilles would want him to, and he knows that Achilles certainly wouldn’t be pleased that he’s walking home this late, by himself, and in this particular area of town.

Patroclus sighs, breathing out a puff of cold air from his lungs.

Achilles, he thinks.

Suddenly, from behind him, there’s the scuffle of shoes on pavement. A crack, a burst of white light, and a flash of excruciating pain splits his skull in two.

Patroclus blinks through a haze of fierce pain pounding through his head. He doesn’t remember falling to the ground.

Hands, seizing him by the straps of his backpack and yanking him harshly to his feet. Shoving him against the brick wall. Patroclus’s head knocks against the cement, and his vision goes dark for a second. When everything swims back into focus enough for him to realize that he’s been dragged off into the opening of a narrow alley, he can make out dark silhouettes shifting in the shadows.

Patroclus’s stomach drops to his feet. Terror, colder than the crisp February breeze, tightens his muscles, squeezing his heart and barreling the air from his lungs in a single rush. He fights to open his eyes fully, but everything is strangely dim. Colors and shapes merge into a messy collage before him.

A wave of dizziness hits him. The ground is falling out from under his feet. The world is tilting off its axis, rotating through space.

A face, close to his. Sour breath, heavy with liquor, opens across his face, and beady eyes squint at his.

Patroclus knows that voice. Knows those eyes.

It’s Hector and his gang, a group of drug dealers known to control a village nearby.

“What’s a scrawny kid like you doin’ out here, huh?” Hector. His voice is like metal grating against metal, and Patroclus winces. From behind him, the other guys snicker, peering over their leader’s shoulder to get a look at poor Patroclus, who, at this point, can barely keep his eyes open against the thunderous pain ripping through his head. Patroclus recognizes one of them as Paris, a convict and known predator who’d sexually assaulted a girl from his grade, Helen, the year prior.

Patroclus is too terrified to speak.

“Aw, he’s scared!” Hector shouts gleefully. A horrible, black-toothed smile splits over his face, and Patroclus immediately feels like he’s going to be sick. More laughter from behind him.

A bony finger with skin like ice draws across his face, tracing a cut into his cheek with a sharp nail. Patroclus flinches. He bites back the vomit climbing up his throat and wills himself not to cry.

Would anyone hear him if he screamed? Would he be alive long enough for anyone to come, even if they did hear him?

“Where’s your wallet, luv?” Hector whispers, his eyes flashing menacingly in the thick darkness. His grip on Patroclus tightens in warning.

Patroclus rakes in a trembling breath. “I-I d-don’t have any m-money,” he stammers, and the words come out small and weak and betray almost how afraid he is, and he hates himself for it.

For a moment, silence. Dangerous silence. Patroclus wonders if they can hear his ragged breaths, or the sound of his heart slamming against his ribcage in panic.

Finally: “Guess we’ll have to do this the hard way, then.”

Patroclus barely has time to register what this means when a fist comes flying out of the blue. It nails him right in the temple, and for the third time that night, Patroclus’s head is sent flying against a hard surface. He doesn’t even feel pain when suddenly everything is completely, totally dark. Patroclus slumps to the ground, unconscious, leaving a smear of scarlet blood over the bricks in his wake.

The reprieve is short, however, and Patroclus is dragged back into the realm of consciousness by shocks of hot pain blooming across his body.

A whack to the gut.

The wind, repeatedly knocked out of him.

A span of shadows, all sending kicks and punches at him as he crumples on the asphalt.

Patroclus whimpers. He doesn’t even register his backpack being torn from his shoulders, the contents spilled over the ground as greedy hands dig through the pockets.

Broken sounds. Muffled words failing to reach him. Isolated syllables scrambled in his brain.

A final kick, right to his stomach. Patroclus curls in on himself, wheezing.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s alone until the men have long gone.

It feels like an eternity of slow, shallow breaths. Patroclus’s entire body aches, and his head is sending waves of heat unfolding through the rest of his body.

Achilles, he thinks.

Thank God, they haven’t taken his phone. It was tucked in a small pocket on the inside of his coat, and Patroclus sends a small thanks to whoever’s listening. With shaking hands, he unlocks it and finds Achilles’s name in his list of contacts.

Be awake, he wishes for Achilles. Be awake be awake be awake-

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

Patroclus wants to cry. He’s not going to pick up, and Patroclus will be left lying here to freeze to death in this dark alley.

Ringing.

And then: “Patroclus?”


	2. Chapter 2

“What’re you doing up so late, Patroclus?” Achilles yawns from the other end.

Patroclus is so relieved he could cry, if he had the energy to. “Achilles,” he wheezes.

“Patroclus?” Achilles almost yells, suddenly panicked as he realizes that something’s wrong. “What’s wrong, oh my God, are you okay-”

“C-can y-you come pick m-me up?” Patroclus croaks. It’s a fight to stay conscious, now, but he knows that he can’t let himself close his eyes.

“What? Shit, Patroclus, where are you?!” Achilles’s voice is tight with fear, each sentence rapidly tumbling out of his lips in alarm.

Patroclus, choking on his own breath and the frigid cold, holds his stomach tighter and wishes he didn’t have to be awake. “Opus V-Village. An a-alley, I think.” His strength is dwindling.

A string of colorful curses from Achilles’s end of the line, and then: “Hold on, oh my God, I’m coming, please hold on, I’ll be right there, stay with me-”

Patroclus doesn’t hear anything else. His phone slides out of his grip, and, when he doesn’t have the strength to pick it up, he winces at the shouts from the other end. Achilles is freaking out, undoubtedly.

Patroclus is sinking through a cold blue ocean. He feels the dull throb of his aching limbs, the heavy drumming of blood thumping in his ears, the broken beating of his heart in his chest. His skin is numb from the cold.

The thought that Achilles is coming is the only thing holding him together, at this point. Through half-lidded eyes, he stares up at a sliver of murky sky. Stars speckle the darkness like tiny diamonds, and he tries to draw the constellations he knows.

Casseiopia, he sees. The queen who was hung upside-down on her throne by Poseidon as a punishment for her vanity and hubris.

Patroclus vaguely wonders how long he’s been lying there for. He tries to lift his head, but a cacophony of white-hot agony ricochets down his body like a bullet, and he eases back down on the dirty ground. At least he can move his limbs, he thinks (even though it hurts like hell to do so). He twitches his hands and feet in reassurance of his mobility, wincing at the protest of his battered joints.

Patroclus doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there for, only that, at some point, the ball of agony exploding in the center of his head eventually becomes too much, and everything cuts to black.

*******

When a pair of hands first grab him, Patroclus’s first thought is that he’s being mugged again.

But, no, these hands are softer. Gentle, even, as they flit up and down his body as they desperately check for injury. They feel like butterflies as they fall on his face.

Someone’s shouting.

“Patroclus!”

It’s Achilles.

Patroclus’s breath catches, and his eyes flutter open. Achilles fills his entire field of vision.

“Patroclus!” Achilles cries out, cupping his face. His eyes are crazed with hysterical fear, and his face is twisted with delirious panic as he leans over Patroclus.

Patroclus opens his eyes wider and groans as pain crackles through his body. Achilles’s breath hitches. “What hurts?” he chokes out. His voice is tight with tears held at bay. “Oh my God, you’re going to be okay, it’s okay-”

Patroclus raises a hand to his face and offers him a feeble smile. “I’m okay, I p-promise,” he chatters. His lungs are tight from the cold, but it’s slightly easier to breathe knowing Achilles is here. He curls up into Achilles’s warm embrace, hurt when he notices how badly Achilles is shaking. Achilles wraps trembling arms around him and buries his face in the crook of his neck.

“I w-wasn’t s-sure if… ” Achilles manages, and he sniffles. He’s barely holding it together, at this point. The words are strangled and punctured with fear, fear of what could’ve happened. Patroclus flinches as his head slips off Achilles’s shoulder, and the blonde makes a choking sound. “Fuck. What hurts? Fuck. What-”

“Hector and his guys c-caught me walking alone and h-hit me over the head a few t-times. T-tried to get any m-money off of m-me,” he mutters, closing his eyes against the terrifying flashbacks of the event. Achilles shutters out a gasp when he notices that Patroclus’s eyes are closed.

“God, Patroclus, you’re so cold, we have to get you to a hospital-”

Patroclus strains to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to go to a hospital, where the lights will be too bright and it will be too loud and there will be people asking him questions. He just wants to sleep. “N-no, please, it’s j-just a concussion, l-let’s go to your h-house-”

“There’s no way in hell I’m not taking you to the hospital,” Achilles whispers resolutely, hugging Patroclus to his chest fearfully. “Please, for me, let’s go. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Patroclus knows there’s no way Achilles will be sated until he’s certain Patroclus is okay, so he sighs into his chest and closes his eyes sleepily. “Okay,” he breathes.

He can hear the thundering of Achilles’s heart, and his own breaks a little.

"I'm okay, Achilles," he exhales. Achilles nods to himself and closes his eyes, and the two of them stay like that for a moment, holding each other close and enjoying the sound of the other's heartbeat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is worried. Basically it's him, being worried. And it's Patroclus, adoring his bff like the little dork he is.

Shaking. He’s shaking, as he lifts Patroclus.

Achilles carries Patroclus with the tenderness one might reserve for a newborn child. He swaddles him in his arms and presses a pleading kiss to his forehead, a kiss that begs him to be okay. From his foggy, disjointed perspective, Patroclus can discern a wide-eyed look of blazing fear tightening Achilles’s features.

To put it kindly, Achilles looks like he’s about to lose his shit.

Patroclus folds himself against Achilles’s sweatshirt to comfort him, and he huddles for warmth against the predatory cold.

Patroclus vaguely frets over the fact that he’s staining the fabric of the sweatshirt with blood. Achilles will have to wash the sweatshirt when he gets home. Hopefully it’ll come out. It would be awful if the blood didn’t come out, Patroclus thinks. That’s one of his favorite sweatshirts. It smells like almonds and the sea. Smells like Achilles. In that exact moment, Patroclus somehow convinces himself that ruining Achilles’s sweatshirt would be the worst thing in the world. He can’t think of anything in the world worse than that.

If the blood doesn’t come out, Patroclus thinks, he’ll never forgive himself. Ever.

“Please, please hold on, please,” Achilles breathes. Why doesn’t he seem to care about the blood soaking his sweatshirt? That’s what he should be worried about, Patroclus says to himself. It’s downright ridiculous, that he doesn’t seem to care.

“Trying,” Patroclus slurs.

Achilles holds him tightly and starts to sprint to his car. He’s exceedingly careful not to step too heavily for fear of hurting the boy encased in his arms, but his footfalls are jarring nonetheless.

His heart sounds like a frantic drum. Patroclus counts the beats. Then he forgets what number comes next, and then he forgets he was supposed to be counting at all.  
Patroclus’s eyes begin to droop shut, a feeling of lightheaded exhaustion branching out from his pounding head. He clings to consciousness, afraid of the darkness that pulls at him, but the pain is overwhelming him. It’s a losing battle. Patroclus puffs out a breath, and his head drops back. He hears a yelp of horror. Then he hears nothing at all.

********** 

He’s not dying. Death wouldn’t hurt this much.

Patroclus is suspended in a realm of incapacitating blackness. And the pain, the pain is there too. He feels pressure on all sides, pulverizing his body, crushing his lungs and winding him. His bones are splintered wood; his skin is tingling with heat; his tongue is painted with the taste of blood. He tries to open his eyes and finds he cannot. He tries to move and finds he is paralyzed.

It becomes a game, then. To see how fast he can wake his leaden limbs. See how soon he can force his eyes open and let in the light.

A twitch of the fingers. A breath, catching in his throat.

Finally, finally, he’s able to open his eyes, and it’s like pushing open a heavy door that’d rusted shut. Light gushes into his field of vision, blinding him, and he moans.

There’s a gasp, the sound of chair legs screeching over tile, and warm breath spans out over his face.

“Patroclus?” a voice whispers.

He groans. He’s finally awake, but the pain is sharpening too, as the drugs start to fade.

The first thing he can clearly make out is green. Rich, golden green, like emeralds, the color of rolling hills and feathery leaves. Patroclus’s eyes finally adjust to the light, and there’s Achilles, less than an inch away. Their noses are touching.

Achilles lets out a sob.

The poor boy looks like he’s about to have a complete meltdown. His breath is uneven and strained, and fallen tears have etched themselves into his blotchy, puffy cheeks.

Achilles also looks utterly exhausted. His hair is disheveled and messy, the circles beneath his eyes bruised and swollen, his skin white. His eyes are haunted and bloodshot. His features are pulled and exhausted even as relief floods them, and a broken smile tugs at his pale lips.

Patroclus’s heart squeezes. He wants to hold Achilles and soothe him and promise him that everything’s going to be okay, but he kind of feels like absolute shit. He also kind of can’t move his arms.

“Did it come out?” Patroclus mumbles.

Achilles takes a moment to find words, before choking out, “Did what come out?”

“The blood. On your sweatshirt.”

Achilles lets out a shaky laugh before he can stop himself, and then suddenly he’s crying and then he’s holding Patroclus tightly but carefully and his shoulders are wracked with mangled sobs that’d been held in too long and he’s telling Patroclus that he was so goddamn worried, that he was so fucking scared, that he thought maybe Patroclus wouldn’t wake up at all-

“Hey, it’s okay,” Patroclus breathes before Achilles can say anything else. Patroclus leans his head against Achilles’s chest and tangles his fingers in strands of golden hair. “It’s okay,” he repeats hoarsely. “I promise, it’s- I’m okay.”

Achilles pulls back to look at Patroclus’s face, and his eyes are swimming. “You have no idea what it was like,” he rasps. “Getting that call. Not knowing what was happening to you. And then- s-seeing you, on the ground, covered in b-blood-” His voice breaks off, and he rests his forehead against Patroclus’s. “I- fuck.”

Absolute agony bursts through his arms as Patroclus wraps them feebly around Achilles’s frame, but he figures it’s worth it. But then he can’t hold them up that long. Exhausted, Patroclus sinks back against the pillow and swallows grimly.

Achilles is, of course, freaking out. “Oh my God, should I get a doctor- oh shit- I- doctor!”

Patroclus smiles wearily. It’s endearing, really. “Hey, I’m fine, remember?” As if on cue, he bites his lip and sucks in a breath because, ouch, it feels like an anchor is sitting on his chest, and his rib is making a weird noise, and he’s pretty sure his throat shouldn’t have a heartbeat, and his head is literally killing him. But, yeah, he’s completely, totally fine.

The door opens, and a nurse with warm, chocolate eyes and dark skin strides briskly into the room.

“Finally awake, huh?” she says when she sees Patroclus. “Good of you to rejoin everybody. I’m Briseis.” Briseis points to Achilles and shakes her head. “This one was going nuts, I’m telling you. Giving everybody a hard time, refusing to leave even after visiting hours.”

Achilles is suddenly very interested in the floor, his cheeks rosy. Patroclus looks at him lovingly, his insides suddenly soft and warm. He can picture it: Achilles shouting at anyone dumb enough to tell him to leave, resorting to threats when they wouldn’t back off. He chuckles throatily. What an idiot.

Briseis clucks her tongue at Achilles. “You might want to try to get some sleep, kiddo. You almost look as bad as our patient over here.”

Achilles flushes indignantly. “Well, what was I supposed to do?” he mumbles defensively. “I needed to be awake when he woke up.” He nuzzles closer to Patroclus protectively, and Patroclus feels his face heating up.

God, he thinks, he got lucky.

Briseis slips Patroclus a knowing smile and drops her gaze back down to her clipboard. Onto the list of injuries. “Well,” she says, “you got beat up pretty badly. One hell of a concussion, two broken ribs, and some tissue bruising. Fortunately, I’d say you shouldn’t need to be here much longer, as long as you make sure to get lots of rest and don’t overexert yourself. Doctor’d like to keep you here another day, but then you’re good to go.”

Patroclus and Achilles simultaneously breathe out a sigh of immense relief. Patroclus can’t wait to get the hell out of here. The buzzing white lights and searingly bright walls and the weird smell of chemicals and blood and metal altogether are overwhelming to stimuli. Honestly, nothing sounds better than climbing into his own bed and taking a nice, long nap.

Briseis gives Patroclus a glass of water, which he gulps down loudly, and rebandages his head. Achilles takes his hand and squeezes as she bustles out of the room. Patroclus takes enormous comfort in the color returning to his cheeks, in the way that he finally seems assured that Patroclus is real and will be okay.

“I am never leaving your side again,” Achilles exhales.

Patroclus smiles. “What about when I sleep?”

“My bed’s big enough for the two of us.”

Patroclus flushes. “When I shower?”

Achilles wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Patroclus barks out a laugh, too tired and drugged out to be embarrassed, but the sharp pain in his ribs cut off his breath abruptly. Achilles’s eyebrows crease and he quickly motions as if to get the nurse, but Patroclus brushes him off. He just wants to be alone with Achilles, right now. Reluctantly, Achilles settles back down, watching Patroclus worriedly.

“I won’t do it, Patroclus,” Achilles whispers. “It’s you and me.”

Patroclus rests his head on Achilles’s shoulder and sighs contentedly, feeling safe and warm for the first time in hours.

But then a tense silence falls between them, and Achilles bites his lip. “And when you’re good," he says, and his voice is low and dangerous, "you are going to tell me exactly what happened, so I can go find Hector and kill him for hurting you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! This chapter's kind of a break from the heavy angst you've seen in the past couple chapters. Basically, it's Patroclus tryna get Achilles to chill tf out. Also walls. Have you seen them? They're sexy as hell. Patroclus agrees.

Oh.

Patroclus is alarmed by the darkness in Achilles’s voice, the way his green eyes flash with something frightening as he spits Hector’s name out of his mouth like it’s something he cannot stand the taste of. Achilles tightens his hold on Patroclus’s hand possessively.

Patroclus swallows. He knows this is all coming from a place of love for him, and from fear, maybe, but Achilles’s lust for violence never ceases to unsettle him. It’s always surprising to see the gentleness in his gaze replaced by something so angry, or to see his soft, fine hands clenched, white-knuckled as rage simmers through his blood. Patroclus reaches up and tilts Achilles’s chin until their eyes are locked. He is desperate to see the light return, to see Achilles come back to himself with a smile and a shake of the head. Do not worry, he would say. I will stay right here, with you, he would say.

“Don’t go, please,” Patroclus croaks. Please. Please, he thinks. Over and over and over in his head again until the word almost loses its meaning, until it becomes a single sound.

If Achilles got hurt on some stupid revenge mission to avenge him, he’d be devastated.

Patroclus feels every breath catching as it passes beneath his ribs, aches with every bruise that bloomed across his skin. He swallows against the supernovae of static pain bursting from his head and pushing against his skull. Everytime he closes his eyes he can only see the same horrible smile, or the smear of lights as the stars slide out from the sky and splinter on the ground with him. It is constant, this pain.

And yet.

And yet Patroclus would rather suffer a thousand beatings than allow Achilles to feel a fraction of what he felt.

He does not think he would have made it back to his feet if the roles had been reversed, if it was he who had found Achilles sprawled at the mouth of a dark alley in a pool of his own blood. He does not think he would have been able to bear it, if Achilles was the one lying in a hospital bed, encased in bloody bandages. It's hard enough seeing him like this.

Achilles should never have to hurt, Patroclus thinks. It seems absurd, the thought that he’s not invincible. He should be. But the boy in front of him does not look invincible. He looks angry, and haunted, and small. His breaths are rushed, and his body is hunched. He does not look invincible at all. He looks like he’s holding himself together by a thread. A dam cracking with the effort to keep from flooding.

“Please,” Patroclus whispers again. The broken word hangs in the space between them.

Achilles stares deep into his pleading eyes for a long moment, his jaw set. His eyes are hard with anger; his muscles are coiled so tightly Patroclus can see veins beneath the skin.

Please, Patroclus whispers. Do this, for me. Do not go to Hector. Stay here, with me.

Maybe it is the watery desperation in Patroclus’s voice. Maybe it is the tremors that wrack his fragile body, or the shuddering breaths that blow past his lips. Whatever it is, finally, finally, oh God, finally, the anger melts out of Achilles’s eyes, and he softens against Patroclus. Patroclus could cry with relief.

“I would’ve made him bleed,” Achilles says quietly, bitterly. There is a venom there that could wound. “I would’ve killed him and eaten him raw.”

Patroclus gives his hand a squeeze. “I know. But I’m glad you’re staying. I need you here, to help me get better.”

Achilles looks up at him. His eyes are hollowed out. Patroclus feels a rush of guilt when he sees the tear tracks etched into his skin, and he feels even more guilty when he sees the effort it's taking Achilles not to shatter into pieces. “What were you doing out there?” Achilles asks hoarsely.

Ah, goddamn it all to hell, Patroclus thinks. He really, really did not want the conversation to be brought in this direction. Because he knows what Achilles’s reaction will be if he tells him that the only fucking reason he was out in a dangerous part of town at night- the only reason he landed his dumbass in a hospital- was because his dad’s a prick, and he didn’t want to bother Achilles the night before a track meet. And- the best reason of all- because it was the fastest way home.

That's right. Patroclus literally walked through the most dangerous part of town because it was the fastest way to get home.

Parkour, bitches.

In retrospect, Pat thinks, tugging uncomfortably at his bandages, not such good reasons. Not- not quite as strong as he thought.

Achilles is still waiting for an answer, though. Patroclus pointedly stares at anywhere but his face as he mumbles, “I was walking home from m-math league.” The words taste pathetic as he says them.

Already, he can feel Achilles tensing. “Why didn’t you get a ride home?” Achilles says, and his voice is prickling.

Oh, but would you look at that? The wall. Haha! So lovely. Such a stunning color (it’s white). Oh, and there’s another one, too, that’s further away from Achilles! That’s another nice wall. It’s really quite a gorgeous specimen. A fairly solid wall, if Patroclus does say so himself.

“Well, you know my dad,” Patroclus says nervously. He forces a chuckle, eyes still trained on that same sexy wall. “He probably wouldn’t have bothered picking me up.”

“Rrrright,” Achilles says slowly. “But then why didn’t you call me?”

Would Achilles believe him if he feigned unconsciousness right now? Or perhaps, would he be interested in discussing the very specific shade of Benjamin Moore’s White Dove paint covering the walls instead?

In the end, Patroclus curses it all to hell and mutters softly, “I didn’t want to wake you. It was late. And you have a tr-”

“WHAT?!”

Goddamn it all to hell. God. Damn. It. All. To. Hell.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope everyone's healthy and safe at home right now. Quarantine is kicking my ASS, but hopefully it'll all be over soon.
> 
> I'd like to give a special thanks to Louisa Peters (her comments are more well-written than the actual chapters), AngelicDemon4004 (who I will forever owe my life to for telling me how to italicise), and everyone else who's shown me so much support over the duration of my writing process. Thank you for everything. <33
> 
> Basically, this chapter starts out with a little more angst, but then f l u f f.

“You’re not serious, though,” Achilles manages to say with immense effort. There’s a strain in his eyes that makes Patroclus feel like he’s swallowed a stone. 

“Patroclus, tell me you did not put yourself in danger because you didn’t feel like waking me up!”

Patroclus finally turns away from the wall. His morphine-muddled mind isn’t even making an effort to come up with a better excuse. Shame creeps up his neck and spreads through his face, hot and tingly. Achilles has been trying and trying and trying since the day they first met to show Patroclus that he can rely on him, that Achilles will always be there for him, yet Patroclus still succeeds in finding himself in situations like this. Situations caused by his own stupid resistance to reaching out to others.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus gets out. He can't find any other words.

What a shitty person I am, he thinks. He put Achilles through a horrible, horrible night- even dragged him out to a goddamn hospital- all because of his own irresponsibility. Patroclus flickers his gaze up to Achilles’s shocked, betrayed expression, and he wants to shrivel up.

“I’m sorry, Achilles,” he tries again, but his voice is still weak.

Achilles swallows with some difficulty. “I- you c-could’ve been killed!” he chokes. His lower lip wobbles as the weight of the last word hits them both. Achilles rakes in a breath. "What then? I-f you died? What a-about me? I- I don't-"

Patroclus blinks back his own tears as he pulls himself against Achilles’s frame. Achilles immediately wraps an arm around him and hugs him tightly, resting his head on Pat’s and taking deep, heavy breaths to calm down. Patroclus rests a hand over his chest. He feels Achilles’s heart slamming against his palm. Guilt will not relinquish its hold on him yet, and his stomach twists.

"I'm sorry, Achilles," he whispers.

Achilles sucks in a sharp, watery breath. He presses a kiss to the top of Patroclus's head. He can't stay mad at him, has never been able to. "Just w-wake me up next t-time."

Patroclus nods. "I will, I swear it."

A stillness befalls the room, and Patroclus rests his head on Achilles's chest as Achilles pulls up the sheets of the hospital bed.

Time flows by like water in a stream, the seconds slowly pulling away in a current. Patroclus doesn’t know how long he rests for, like that. It feels more natural than anything in the world: his head, resting on Achilles’s chest as it rises and falls, Achilles’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, a delicious warmth shared between their bodies. Patroclus even forgets the pain, for a little bit. His ears are filled with the music of Achilles’s soft breaths and calming heart. He is cocooned in a blanket of safety and comfort.

This.

A lifetime of this. It seems agonizingly unfair that this is finite, that one day they will scrape at the pockets of the universe for more time and come up empty-handed. Patroclus drinks in every second of them like ambrosia, like he can’t get enough, like he’s the spark and Achilles is the oxygen and-

Together they’re wildfire.

A syrupy heat spreads through his veins like honey. For the first time, Patroclus does not fear the lull that coaxes him into the deep. He closes his eyes and smiles as the heaviness overtakes him, as he sinks into the fog.

“Everything alright in here? I thought I heard a shhhh….ooooh,” Briseis, who had just entered the room, stops herself short at the sight that awaits her. She can’t help but chuckle at the two boys, both fast asleep in each other’s arms, snuggled beneath the white blankets and gripping the other like a child grips a teddy bear.

All is safe and all is warm, and the ache starts to fade.

*****

A finger whispers across his skin. Tracing his brow, the gentle curve of his nose, his cheekbones, his jawline.

Patroclus opens his eyelids against the drowsiness. He is met with a pair of green eyes that glisten like rhinestones in the heavy darkness.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Achilles whispers.

Patroclus smiles sleepily. “What are you doing?”

Achilles’s breath is labored with an emotion that cannot be named. He swallows and matches Patroclus’s gaze with such a fierce intensity that Patroclus feels like he’s burning. Beautiful, Patroclus thinks. “I was memorizing.”

“Memorizing?”

Achilles exhales softly, a ‘yes’, and Patroclus’s heart hiccups in his chest. Even in the dark, Achilles is radiant. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Patroclus cannot catch his breath. He would blame it on his injuries if he could only form the words to speak.

It’s so unfair, that this isn’t forever.

No, Patroclus thinks resolutely, I would know him, even in death, at the end of the world.

*****

Just as rain falls in even the heat-cracked desert—

Just as the light of the sun finds the moon in an ocean of dark space—

Achilles would find his way back to Patroclus, and Patroclus would find his way back to Achilles.

“Patroclus,” Achilles says, and it's the loveliest sound in the world.


End file.
